


Valyrian Steel Play

by slayertown



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Kink, Knife Play, Minor Angst, Smut, gendrya does knife play, minor failing of geography, that’s it, the spirit of renly compels hot pie to make peach tarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slayertown/pseuds/slayertown
Summary: Arya and Gendry have a disagreement half a year into their marriage at Storm's End. Gendry tries to settle it in the bedroom when Arya pulls the catspaw dagger on him. Weapon play ensues because of course it does.Filth and feelings happen.⛈🔪🥧





	Valyrian Steel Play

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: please do not attempt knife play without research and communicating clear boundaries, limits, safewords, failsafes, etc with your partner(s). the consequences are too sharp and pointy otherwise. if this were a modern setting i'd have the pairing do negotiations/discuss the act beforehand. since this is westeros and arya x gendry are canonically built on consent and weaponry foreplay, they just be having at it. us mortals need to practice safety though!!
> 
> minor angst as b-story but “story” is rich, it’s just porn x:
> 
> hope you like!
> 
> edit: okay jk it's feelings porn

She’s not where she usually blows steam. The storm chased Arya out of the training yard, so Gendry checks her makeshift archery range (the granary), the armory, and even the kitchens.

Hot Pie claims she tucked one of his cutting boards under her arm and went upstairs without a word.

“Should make yous an armor, you two keep fighting like this.”

“Shut up, Hot Pie.”

“Maybe she needs it to smack you with. Would be smart'r to protect yourself.”

“Mind the ovens, not my marriage,” Gendry says as he makes to leave.

“She’s my friend, too! And look what you did– brown sugar glaze today an’ she wouldn’t touch ‘em. She loves these.” Hot Pie pinches his fingers in the air like he’s sprinkling sugar.

“I didn’t do anything,” Gendry grumbles as he doubles back for two of the peach tarts.

Peacetime is an awkward thing with Westeros helmed by a generation that never knew it. Everyone is eager to prosper yet wary of slipping back into unrest.

Transition is a balancing act.

So when Arya declares she’s to take time in Winterfell, he only objects because it feels too soon.

Six months into their union, they’d just begun to find their footing as paramounts of a region new to them both. Six months of quelling the Stormlords’ fancies as they siphoned more funds to the small folk. Gendry hardly got the chance to ask her to wait on the trip before she walked out of the conversation.

_“Is this going to be a habit? You running.”_

_“If you mean to stifle me, you’ll find out.”_

When he tries their solar, he thinks the pitter-patter means it’s started to hail outside. Then he sees the ball of steam winding itself in the room.

Arya is seated with her right hand flat and splayed atop the wooden board, her famed Valyrian catspaw dagger jumping space to space between her fingers. _1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. _

Somehow, his feet draw themselves toward the sinister rhythm. Arya has always been a love draught mixed with fear and awe.

He takes a seat and offers the tiny dessert before her, having finished his own on the way up.

Arya stabs it.

Then she flips her grip to point the dagger at Gendry. “Do you want to try?” Talking is a good sign, he assumes. Her tongue cleans the sugar off the tip of the knife, and despite or because of how they left things, it does something to him.

“You want your husband with hands like Davos?”

A smirk grows, glazed sinister and sweet. “I’ll do it.”

“That’s not what I—“

“What’s the matter? You scared?” There’s still some bicker left in her voice. And because Arya doesn’t get to tower over anyone in her life, she takes particular pleasure in rising from her seat, the shape of her features indignant and downcast. With the flat of her dagger, she lifts the bottom of his chin to her. His nostrils flare like... a certain type of cattle. “You don’t trust your loving wife knows what she’s doing?”

Gendry’s been with Arya long enough to catch on to a few of her tells. He knows this look. He sees it when she tosses arms at him to catch, her own brandished between them soon after. He sees it when she shoves him to the ground, for reasons of varying maturity. She wants to play.

His left hand resigns itself to the table, fingers spread.

It starts slower than he expected. When she drops his chin, she drags the edge of the steel from the top of his shoulder, all along the length of his sleeve, down to the middle fingernail. The thin of the metal is so fine and threatening, yet the pressure delicate and incendiary. Knuckle hairs stand up against better judgement as they’re nicked clean.

And then she starts.

_1\. 2. 3. 4. 5. 1. 2…_

Then he makes the mistake of looking from his hand to her eyes and the trap shuts. She meets his gaze with a hard stare and quickens the pace. _1234512345._

It’s a bit of a show to release him. Without looking, the black dragonbone twirls in her palm before she plunges the sharpened end into the gap between his thumb and index finger. The point swivels side to side.

“You satisfied?” His teeth ask.

“No.”

Arya raises an eyebrow and her head tilts to the side, a knowing look on her face.

Gendry simply nods.

On their hurried way back from their first trek out of the Stormlands, Arya and Gendry had gotten lost. Their supposed shortcut through the Kingswood took their party to the base of the bordering mountain range, miles out of the way. Each blamed the other for it, and only silence spurned between them the rest of the way home.

Until they found themselves changing out of travel worn raiment together, Arya pinned against the chamber wall soon after, gripping her nails into Gendry’s shoulders until they fucked to completion. There’s a reason they call parlay a treat. Once her legs unhooked from his back, they dressed and splintered into different hallways, returning to the stalemate.

Again, Arya points the blade at his chest. “Get up,” she orders.

Without question, he does.

Unarmed and staring into her weapon, Gendry recalls from Arya that fighting is a lot like dancing. Bodies swirl together more for glory than for folly. And if Gendry wants to chase this glory, he has to fall in step.

“Take your clothes off.”

He listens. Doing his best not to bend forward into the blade, Gendry lets his breeches down his ankles. He steps out of them with his own shaft drawn.

“Now kneel.” The steel steers him to the rug.

Once in position, Arya commands him to touch himself and he obliges. As she stands before him, her stance is open and stalwart, nowhere as hardened as her form in battle. Having bent to the blade, Gendry feels akin to bowing when he wraps his hand around his cock, looking up for a hint of approval as he strokes.

She almost smiles. Almost.

“Close your eyes.”

The feeling of cold metal on his chest sends a jolt down his core. Arya’s smoothing the patterned flat of the dagger across his collarbone, inches away from the veins of his neck. Breath holds and his body stiffens.

“I didn’t say stop.”

Her reminder brings the hand at his groin back to motion, a little faster this time. Then she takes the rounded end of the hilt and trails it down his sternum. The blind sensation makes him shudder and the descent of the pressure forces his eyes open.

If he’s defied her, she doesn’t say. Instead he sees her lips parted and her eyes hazed. “What do you want?” She asks with no less command in her voice.

“You. Naked.” It’s all one in his state can manage. Whether her brows muse at his desperation or something else, he cannot tell.

“Good idea.” Pulling his right wrist from himself, Arya replaces his grip with the black and gold handle. She steps back until she’s leaned against the table, her hands sliding outward along the edge of the lacquered wood. “Take my clothes off with it.” Less a command and more an invitation.

Even if Arya had the arms on her to swing Gendry’s warhammer, she wouldn’t do it. Not without asking. A warrior’s weapon is hardly a thing to hand off for show; rules being if they can make off with a gander, they can make off with a get.

Holding the catspaw is the act of holding her trust. It is the act of holding her.

Arya is still as stone as the sound of tearing rips into the air. The old Valyrian metalwork parts fabric as if it were parchment. The shorn edges pull away like curtains, and her body opens to him like a gift. With care, Gendry thumbs the waistline of her breeches away from her flesh to slice down the center of the wool.

“Damn, this is good steel.” A smith can’t be helped.

He rests the catspaw on the table to finish falling the rest of the tatters to the floor. Arya lets her arms hang to the side, content to let Gendry have a few more moments of control. Once she’s bare, an impatient heat warms her tongue, lips suck into her skin, and fingers find her teeming with wet from their precarious dance.

“Let’s see where I’ll have you,” she ponders as her hands slide down the muscles of his arms. Arya flicks the dagger into a gentle spin on its ruby embellishment. They watch as it turns and lands its point on the window overlooking the tempest.

Arya leads him over and either to make up for it or remind him further, she traces over where she touched his body with the blade. Then she climbs her knees onto the cushioned bench of the windowsill. One hand braces upon the glass and the other lingers behind to guide him into her.

Gendry takes in the sight of her reflection laid over the afternoon storm. The ruffle of clouds in her hair, raindrops painting her skin, sea spray bursting on her bare chest. He can see her eyes shut in pleasure as he begins to thrust. The way her mouth falls open when he quickens the pace, and the way she wrinkles her brows when he slows.

“No–“ she bemoans his leave.

“Let me see you better.”

Gendry hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to make love like it’s the last time. To give as much as he can and leave nothing to hope.

When the wight walkers were at their door, they made their last stand in surrender to each other. The hardest thing he’s learned since was that there were things beyond death that could take Arya Stark away from him.

And that is how he loves her now.

Large hands shift her off the bench as he sits in her place. Arya holds the sides of his neck as she settles her thighs on either side of him. She clenches herself tight when she sinks down to envelope him, his groans relishing it the whole way down. Face to face, he can admire the way the gray light of the overcast makes her skin glisten as she rides him. This is how he wants her—close enough to melt in her wake.

When she pauses for a breath, Gendry leans his shoulders into the windowpane for leverage. Catching her hips on the rise, he holds her in place above him. Arya spreads her arms out to either side to still herself with the walls of the nook. Withholding nothing, he pounds into her from below until she can no longer keep the cries in her throat, the sounds wrenching themselves into the view of the crashing waves. A finger drifts to the nub of her sex, and she brings herself to crest as he finishes inside of her.

They sit in their sweat, breathing heavy to find their stillness.

But stillness can agitate. So Gendry sits up proper to hold his wife to his chest. He kisses the sides of her temples, and her cheeks, and her nose, before savoring her lips again. His forehead presses to her chin as he lowers his mouth further to lay a kiss on the flesh above her heart.

It’s clear she won’t move when she grazes her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp in back and forth motions.

Her nose touches to his, and Arya looks into his eyes an inch away, her thumb making small sweeps of his jaw.

A gentle whisper carries out the question.

“What are you afraid of?”

Shut lids meet it.

“That you won’t choose me. That you’ll remember yourself. And I’ll be without you again.”

A long exhale.

“Gendry, I would never do that.”

“You already have.”

Arya didn’t look at him the day she said no. Not long enough for her answer to set into the lines of his face. That’s where they were different. When Gendry meant to leave her for the Brotherhood, he at least looked her in the eye and bore her witness.

This is what she would’ve seen if she hadn’t turned her shoulder and picked up the bow: she sees the pang in her stomach when she was a runaway in the Riverlands, so close to her lady mother yet dressed a world away in rags. _He thinks I don’t want him the way he wants me._

“That was different.” _I love you. _“I thought I was going to die in the Red Keep, so I wanted you to find a happier woman.”_ I love you._ “I don’t believe that anymore.” _I love you._

“I didn’t mean you could never leave.” _I’m sorry._ _“_Whatever you do, where you go, that’s not mine to say.” _I’m sorry._ “I just want more time.” _I’m sorry._

She regrets ever thinking this, but she feels the need to say, “I thought the lordship had gone to your head.”

“Never,” he scoffs. “To hell with this place if you’re not in it.”

She’s heard that from him before. The day she survived the destruction of King’s Landing, her reins kept pulling South. It meant that the same was true for her. None of it without the other.

“Gendry, I need you to understand something. I’ve chosen you already. The day I arrived. The day in the godswood. Everyday since. My family is my family, but so are you.”

The words curve his mouth into a soft disposition. “I won’t keep you from the North.”

“Couldn’t if you tried.” She taps her forehead to his. “But you’re still right. We need more time.”

“Is that what you want?”

“With you, yes.”

It doesn’t dawn on them that they’re still attached at the hip until many kisses later. After Arya removes herself from his lap, she holds her hand out and he follows to where he discarded his clothing. Hers in a torn mess, Arya opts to bite into the cold peach tart while Gendry brings her something from the wardrobe.

He helps her dress; any excuse to touch her. While she ties the laces up the neck of her tunic, Gendry wraps the leather baldric around her waist. He picks the dagger up from the table and examines the ripples where the steel folded over itself an impossible number of times during its formation. It’s balanced—jutting ridges offset by rich gilding—and sharp. A rare thing to wield.

It’s just like her.

He sheathes the blade in her scabbard and they leave down the same hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> gendry when arya pulls the catspaw dagger on him: rip to the night king but im different
> 
> [@harrenhollaback](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/harrenhollaback) on tumblr
> 
> thank you for reading!


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